


finite

by IvyPrincess



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyPrincess/pseuds/IvyPrincess
Summary: Some things weren't meant to last.





	finite

The mercenary reached across the bar, catching hold of Kvothe's sleeve. The innkeeper simply stood, and in that moment, his expression held no fear, no anger or surprise. He only seemed weary, numb, and dismayed.

Bast vaulted across the room, dead set on putting himself between the mercenary and Kvothe, but he was too late. The mercenary had toppled over the bar and latched onto the innkeeper's neck with his teeth, looking for all the world like a rabid dog. The fae shrieked in fury and launched himself over the bar, ramming the possessed man off of Kvothe. The two men continued to roll around as they each grappled at the other for a grip.

At the far end of the bar, the smith's prentice finally retrieved his iron rod from under the table and stretched to his full height. Bellowing, he lifted the iron rod high over one shoulder.

Still clinging to the mercenary, Bast's eyes grew wide with sudden panic as he noticed the smith's prentice approaching. He released his grip and backed away, his feet tangling in the wreckage of the broken barstool. Falling backward, he scuttled madly away from the both of them, uncaring for his hands cut by the glass of smashed wine bottles and splinters.

Suddenly, his hand landed on something fleshy and he reeled away from it, turning around only to see Kvothe, with flesh ripped out near his collarbone, those leaf-green orbs flickering with pain.

"R-reshi?" Bast whispered hoarsely, his glamour flickering as he lost control over his emotions.

The edge of Kvothe's mouth quirked up, belying the agony he must have been in. He attempted to life his head off the floor, only to groan in pain and fall back down, breathing heavily as blood drew a crimson line from the corner of his mouth. His wound continued to bleed, the steady trickle already forming a puddle that soaked into Bast's pants.

"Bast..." Kvothe sighed wearily. "What have I...said...about controlling your...glamour?" The innkeeper broke off, unable to stop coughing, while Bast could only watch in horror as the only human he had ever cared even an inkling for spat out even more globules of blood.

The fae glanced back to where the smith's prentice was still fighting the possessed mercenary, who was attempting to crawl towards the doorway despite having his spinal cord snapped, laughing madly all the while. Bast turned back to his teacher, who was still staring sharply at him, and raised a hand to hover over the wound. "Reshi, let me heal you while they are distra-"

"No," Kvothe interrupted with all the strength he could muster, his eyes flashing, and in that moment, Bast believed more than ever that his Reshi was every bit the king he had deserved to be. " _I forbid it_. You will not...expend your life force...to save mine," the innkeeper ordered, though his voice was but a whisper and every breath he took caused him noticeable pain.

Bast sat back on his haunches, fear and rage and overwhelming concern flashing through his eyes like lightning in a summer storm as his form flickered from human to fae and back in agitation. "Master," he pleaded, hands still reaching out for Kvothe. "Please. You have so much more to live for."

The innkeeper smiled bitterly through a mouthful of blood as his eyes flickered and he fought to keep himself conscious. "Live...for?" He wheezed, sounding every bit the old man he wasn't. "I...have lived and lost...too much already..."

"No..." The dark-haired fae trembled from head to toe, vibrating with energy and the _need_ to do something, anything.

"My choices...are my choices. I would have thought you...would like that, that I'm taking my...destruction on my own terms." Kvothe's voice seemed to get stronger, a tint of his usual teasing coloring the previous death rattle, and Bast knew the end was drawing near.

"I would never value your independence over your life," he snarled, tension threatening to rip the building apart as the roof vibrated overhead. Bast felt madness rise up inside him and thought about all the things he wanted to do at that moment, the violence he would love to commit against a real enemy that he could carve up in front of him, the blood a cleansing absolution. Instead, he was up against the steady press of fate, against which swords and spells were nothing but mocking parodies of rebellion. The future was a net and he would choke himself twisting against it before all was said and done.

His master's eyes that always reminded him of home, not this polluted human dimension, stared sadly at him through half-opened lids, as if he knew what he had been thinking. "Bast..." he sighed. Suddenly, those same emerald eyes snapped wide open, staring blankly into the distance.

"Reshi?" Bast choked out, bound by his master's will, unable to do anything but watch him _die_ , and he wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, that his master would die before he would, immortality be damned.

The same dead eyes softened as they stared blankly, and the dark-haired fae stared back, yearning, hoping his master had changed his mind, only to have his wishes completely annihilated for what would be the last time.

"Denna..." A relieved whisper was heard, before the greatest legend to ever walk the earth quietly passed away, with only one broken, grieving soul to acknowledge his existence.

* * *

It was night again. What was left of Newarre lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The first part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been any inhabitants of the town, their restless breathing and mingled snores would have gently thawed the silence like a warm spring wind while the remains of their fires would have warmed the unnatural stillness in the air. But there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Near the rubble of what had been the Waystone Inn, a figure in a dark cloak bowed his head as he clutched a dull grey-white sword in his hands, the slender and graceful blade pointed towards himself. If you looked closer, you might have noticed that there were two sharp horns protruding from his head. Motionless, he added a despairing, remorseful silence to the larger, hollow one. They made an alloy of sorts, a harmony.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the sweet, cloying smell of the spilt strawberry wine and the thick, monochrome ash that blanketed the ground. It was in the half-burnt trunk with the molten lock. It was in the scraps of paper floating around like will-o'-wisps, still burning, always falling. And it was in the body of a peaceful-seeming man who laid on the floor, looking for all the world like he was asleep.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were the opaque green of thick bottle-glass, and he laid there with the relief that comes from being released from a lifetime of burden.

The inn that had been here was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was light as the feather falling after a songbird takes flight. It was the joyous, fallen-flower sound of a man released after death.


End file.
